


The Language of Flowers

by theunwillingheart



Series: The Grown-Ups Go to War [4]
Category: Young Wizards - Diane Duane
Genre: Armageddon, Doubt, Flower Theming, Gen, Waiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-22
Updated: 2017-06-22
Packaged: 2018-11-17 11:27:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11274489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theunwillingheart/pseuds/theunwillingheart
Summary: “All Nita could think of at the moment was her father, alone in an empty house at a bad time.”Harry Callahan waits for news from the front.Spoilers for Book 8.





	The Language of Flowers

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: As per usual, everything is Diane Duane's. I'm just exploring.

**Garden anemone—forsaken**

There are paramilitary groups wreaking havoc in Ossetia.  Factions are erupting all over France.  Sino-Indian relations are breaking down, and everyone is bringing out the big guns.

Harry Callahan sits in his living room, in front of his TV, and he waits.

Four days.  It’s been four days since he last saw Nita and Dairine, four days since they left to throw themselves at the crisis that’s threatening the universe.

Again.

“…will just have to see what their next moves are going to be.  Back to you, Adam.”

“Thanks, Abbie.  In other news, last night’s attack on the United States’ embassy in…”

Harry has things to do that take him away from the television.  He has to stock the shop, man the register, make deliveries.  But when he isn’t doing any of these things, he sits in front of the TV, his cell phone on his lap, and he _waits_.

“…North Korean question is starting to look even hazier, following recent reports of what looks to be a string of assassination attempts…”

Harry is fine.  As long as he is sitting down, sitting still, he can’t go crazy, like the rest of the world seems to be doing.  He will let the voices on the television drown out the silence of his house, and the silence of his cell phone, and the noise in his mind.

“…instigated by a recent high-profile nuclear weapons test, which Pakistan says is meant to demonstrate…”

What is he going to do?  Where could he possibly go?  What is he anymore a husband without a wife a father without his daughters a florist in a world of mushroom clouds _oh Betty_

_Betty…_

Betty would know what to do.  She would put on some music and make him waltz with her, then laugh threats at him while he stepped on her feet and tried to sing along.  She would organize, and write letters, and invite friends over.  She would know how to pray, unlike him, and when she prayed her prayers would actually _matter_.

“…think about this current trend?  Is it a good idea for people living in high-profile cities to relocate in case of…”

Was it only a few months ago that they buried her?  During the service, Nita had squeezed his hand and whispered, “She’s in a wonderful place, Daddy.  She’s happy.”

But later, as Tom and Carl and Juan helped him shovel the earth onto her coffin, he had thought, bleakly, _For me, there will be no wonderful place.  I’m just going into the ground._

But even the ground has its comforts.  The ground is solid and firm and nourishing.  The ground is where he plants his seeds, plants his seeds and waits.

“Coming up: Homemade bunkers—how some families are preparing for the worst by turning their backyards into makeshift…”

If the Bomb comes to New York, where will he go then?  Will he be vaporized?  A shadow on a wall somewhere, like the ones he’s seen in the documentaries?

How will his children bury him then how will he bury his children if they’re killed in space why is this taking so long why hasn’t he heard anything—

The cellphone rings.

“Hello?”

“Daddy!” Nita says.

 

**Mullein—take courage**

Tough it out.  He’s just going to have to tough it out.

 

**Orange—generosity**

A few days later, Harry lifts the wireless phone from its cradle.  He scrolls down to _Millman, Robert_ , pausing only briefly to look wistfully past it at _Mom (cell phone)_.  He punches the dial button and holds his breath while the phone rings.

“Hello?”

“Robert Millman?  Uh… this is Harry Callahan.  Nita and Dairine’s dad—we’ve met a few times…”

“Ah, Harry.  Yes, I remember you.”  Harry can hear plastic crinkling in the background—the sound of some on-the-go food being unwrapped.  “How are things?  How are the girls doing?”

“…I don’t know.”  Harry focuses on keeping his breathing quiet and slow, on ignoring the burning in his throat and chest.

There is a silence at the other end.  Then, “Yeah.  Nita told me a little about that, about what they’re doing.”

Harry shakes his head out of habit, even though he knows Robert can’t see it.  “Sorry.  This is so inappropriate.  You’re not my psychologist.  I’m misusing this number; I’ll just-”

“I’m going to cut you off there,” Robert says.  “First of all, I’ll be the psychologist of anyone I right well please, thank you very much-”

Harry laughs a little despite himself.

“There it is, good,” says Robert.  “And as for ‘inappropriate’, well…” He gives an exasperated sigh.  “That definitely seems to be _my_ purview, more often than not.”

“Oh boy.  Do I want to know?”

Robert chuckles wryly.  “Trust me,” he says, “you don’t.  _Teenagers._   But enough of that.  Tell me what’s going on with you.”

Harry takes a deep breath.  “It’s been three days since I last heard from Nita or Dairine.  And you know how the cell phones have been acting up.”

“Do I ever,” says Robert with irritation.

“Well, normally that would just be a minor inconvenience.  Right now, though… it’s driving me nuts.”

“That’s very understandable.”  Robert’s voice is soft.  “And the way current forces are messing with all of our heads is likely not helping.”

“The news,” Harry says grimly.  “It’s _everywhere._ ”  He laughs, but the laugh is bitter this time.  “I had no idea we all hated each other this much.”

“No kidding.  People are complicated.”  Robert huffs tiredly.  “Every time you think you’ve got them figured out… Well, I guess that’s what makes them so interesting to work with.  And so infuriating.”

Harry grins.  “I think I’ll stick to my plants.”

“I was just about to ask you about that.  Do you have anything besides work to get you out of the house, take your mind off things?  A hobby, an outreach, an interest group?”

Betty used to get him involved with that kind of stuff.  Now, though… “Not really,” Harry admits.

“Mmm.”  Robert pauses, then says, “I would recommend starting something, then.  It’s times when we’re most afraid, I’ve found, that we most need to get out into the community, start exposing ourselves to more people.  I know it always helps me to make connections, lend a hand.”

“That’s another thing, though.”  Harry isn’t sure if he should say what’s on his mind, but he goes for it anyway.  “The… the feeling of pointlessness.  Just…”  He squeezes his eyes shut and forces the words out.  “Does anything we do matter, if tomorrow the roaches may be all that’s left on our planet?”  There is a pause while he catches his breath, feeling suddenly exhausted and shaky.

“Yes, Harry.  It matters,” says Robert firmly.  “I know it may not seem that way… but believe me, it does.  Maybe even more than normal.  And hey,” he says, his voice lightening, “someone has to set a good example for the roaches.”

Harry snorts.  “Honestly, that sounds like something Nita would say.  Only, she would be serious.”

“And who says I’m not?” asks Robert drily.  “In my experience, all the best jokes are made in earnest.”

“Ha!  Alright.  For the roaches, then.”

The next evening, after closing the store, Harry drives up to Betty’s church for the first time since the funeral.

The parking lot is nearly full.  _People always tend to flock to church when there’s a crisis_ , he thinks bemusedly.  He’s not sure how he feels about that.

He can’t bring himself to go inside—too many painful memories, and besides, what would he even do in there?—but he sits down on the front steps with a cardboard box full of mums and hands them out to people as they pass.

The reactions he gets are mixed, as he’d expected.  Some people get over their brief confusion to accept the flowers with a smile and a thank-you.  Some people take the flowers without comment, then plod blindly forward like sleepwalkers.  A few passers-by view him with suspicion, pulling their curious children away and avoiding eye-contact. 

When asked what it’s for, he simply shrugs and replies, “We had extra.”

One elderly woman walking out of the church collapses into a bundle of tears when he hands her a flower, throwing herself on him and tearfully babbling in a language he can’t understand.  Her family, clearly embarrassed, eventually manages to pry her gently off him.

“Anniversary,” mouths one of the granddaughters as they begin to steer her toward the parking lot.

He watches them as they go.  Right before they disappear around the corner, the woman turns back to look at him.  He meets her eyes, puts his hand over his heart, then kisses his fingertips and holds them out to her.

He isn’t telepathic, but he can tell from her expression that she understands.

 

**Dianthus—make haste**

Running the shop is mostly business as usual.  Every once in a while, though, he and Mike get some noteworthy customers.

Just before noon, a balding man with a round face walks in to pick up a bouquet of red roses.

“The way I figure,” he says, not quite meeting Harry’s eyes, “it’s now or never, right?”  He smiles nervously and walks out like a man marching into battle.

At around three in the afternoon, a thirty-something woman with short, bright green hair and arms full of colorful tattoos picks up a lacy arrangement full of pink flowers and Queen Anne’s lace.

“Special occasion?” asks Harry distractedly, as he rings her up.

“No… well, yeah, I guess,” she says, shrugging.  “These are for my mom.”  Her eyes stare into the middle distance.  “Had a bit of a falling-out.  So stupid… don’t even remember what the fight was about, really.  But no way I’m letting things end like this.”

He pats her hand as he hands her the receipt.  “Hope you can make it right,” he says.

She nods and walks away.

About half an hour later, a tanned man in a business suit strides in, a slightly crazed look in his eyes.

“Hey!” he exclaims, accosting Mike in the middle of restocking the carnations.  “How many crates of sympathy lilies can you get me?”

Mike glances over at Harry, looking decidedly uncomfortable.  Harry approaches them, alert for any signs of trouble.

“If…” Mike swallows.  “If this is for a funeral, we have an ordering form we can have you fill out-”

The man laughs.  “No funerals!” he practically shouts.  “Just give me everything you currently have on stock.  I want to fill my house with white lilies!  White lilies and booze!”  He winks at Harry in a way that Harry finds disconcerting.  “I’m holding an end-of-the-world party!”

Harry and Mike look at each other.  “In the back,” says Harry, feeling a sense of unreality close in around him.  “I think we have some boxes.”

They manage to find three boxes of white lilies, which they pack into the trunk of the man’s expensive-looking car.

“Gotta enjoy it while it lasts, eh?”  He winks at them again.  “Now, to buy up all of the liquor on this crummy island…”

He drives off, leaving both of them standing in front of the store, feeling perplexed.

“Should we be worried?” asks Mike.

“More worried than we already are?”  Harry turns to go back inside.  “I’m not sure that’s possible for me, at this point.”

But as it turns out, it is.

“Mr. C?”

There’s something wrong with Mike’s voice.  Harry looks up from emptying the register at closing time to see that his assistant’s face has gone swollen and is covered in splotchy hives.

“I think I’m having an allergy,” Mike says shakily.  “What do I do?”

Harry feels his heart speed up.  “You have allergies?” he asks.  “Do you have an Epi-Pen on you?”

Mike shakes his head.  “This hasn’t happened before,” he rasps, terrified.

The way Mike sounds just makes Harry more worried.  “How’s your breathing?  Does your throat feel weird?”

Mike takes a few breaths, testing.  “I might just be imagining things,” he says.

“Car,” commands Harry.  “Now.  We’re going to the hospital.”

 

**Cinquefoil—beloved daughter**

He has to help steer Mike into the passenger’s seat—his eyes are nearly swollen shut.  _It might be something on those lilies,_ thinks Harry.  _Normally, I’m the one who drives out to do the funerals… he doesn’t usually handle them._

They pass through triage to one of the curtained ED cubicles, where Harry watches anxiously as Mike is grilled, then poked and prodded by a pair of people in green scrubs.  They mostly ignore Harry, preferring to babble at each other in words he doesn’t understand.

“Name the first-line treatment for anaphylaxis,” says one to the other, whom Harry realizes must be a student.  Funny—he doesn’t remember that being mentioned.

“Epi?” says the student.

“Route?”

“Um… inhaled?”

The doctor gives the student a withering look.  “ _Really?_   What’d you get on your Step, again?”

The student flushes bright red.

“IM or IV.”  The doctor walks off, rolling his eyes and ripping off his gloves.  “I swear, they get stupider every year.”

The student trots after him, visibly upset.

“Excuse me,” Harry says to her, “what’s going to happen now?”

“We’ll order you some medications,” she says absently, then jogs away.

After that, some nurses come in—at least, Harry thinks they must be nurses, everyone dresses the same here—and Mike gets injected with something, then hooked up to a line and given some other stuff.

“Antihistamines and steroids,” one says in an irritated voice when he asks her.

Long stretches of time pass, punctuated every so often by moans of pain and shouted curse words coming from somewhere beyond the curtains.

“How’re you feeling, Mikey?” Harry asks periodically, rubbing Mike’s arm.

“Better, Mr. C,” he responds every time.  “Thanks.  Sorry about this.”

Harry just shakes his head.  It occurs to him at one point that Mike is the closest thing he may ever have to a son.  _Well,_ Harry thinks, _him and an alien shaped like a Christmas tree…_

“You should go home,” Mike says eventually.  By now he’s lying down, his eyes closed—the antihistamines are making him drowsy.  “My mom can pick me up when they release me.”

“You sure?”  Harry doesn’t feel comfortable just leaving him like this.

“Yeah.  You’ve been here long enough.  I’ve got my cell on me; I can call if I need anything.  Go on.  Nita and Dairine’ll be missing you.”

_Nita and Dairine aren’t home,_ Harry thinks with a pang, but he can’t say that.  Instead, he just says, “Sleep well, son.”

“Thanks, Mr. C,” Mike murmurs.  His breath shallows out as he falls asleep.

Harry drives home feeling thoroughly spent.  On top of the tiredness left over from the panic, and the weariness caused by unending worry, he just feels sad—sad that he can’t see Betty, or his daughters, sad that he’s returning, once more, to an empty house.  He has no idea how long it’s going to be like this—or how much longer he can stand it.  Just a few months ago, he couldn’t have imagined that his warm, cozy home would ever become so cold and desolate.

But when he does step inside, something about the place seems less abandoned.  The air feels different, somehow.

“Daddy?”

No.  It can’t be.  He’s hearing things; he’s finally lost it.

He makes his way quietly to the living room.  The TV’s on— _Did I forget to turn it off this morning?_ he wonders guiltily—and there—

There, standing and staring at the TV, her back to him, the remote in one hand—

Harry just looks at her, taking in the sight of her, his precious baby girl, whole and healthy and _alive_ —

Not gasping in the vacuum of space.  Not bleeding out in an alien desert wasteland.  Not burning up in a supernova.

Here.

“Daddy?” she turns and visibly jumps to see him standing behind her.  Then she grabs him into a crushing hug.  “What were you _doing_ there?”

“I live here,” he says.  “This is my house.  And yours, when you have time to get home to it.”  He hugs her back.

 

**Carnation—disdain**

The TV has been turned off, and that’s the way it’s going to stay.

 

**Sorrel—parental affection**

Harry calls Marina and Juan’s house.

“Hello.  Rodriguez residence.”

“Marina.  It’s Harry.”

Marina Rodriguez’s normally warm and friendly voice tightens into something controlled and hard.  “Any news?” she asks.

“Good news,” Harry says, “Good news, Marina.  I just got a check-in from Nita; she says everyone’s doing okay.  Kit’s fine, for now.”

There is a long sigh of relief on the other end of the line.  “Oh _good_ , _menos mal_ , thank you…  Did she mention anything about Carmelita?”

Harry is confused.  “Carmela?  Why?  Has she gone somewhere?”

Another sigh, one of frustration.  “She’s headed off somewhere on her own.  I’m afraid maybe she’s trying to track Kit down.”

Harry frowns.  As far as he knows, Carmela isn’t a wizard.  “Can a nonwizard even travel like that by herself?”

Marina chuckles in resignation.  “If anyone could,” she says knowingly, “it would be ‘Mela.”

Harry laughs too.  “I won’t argue there.  I’m afraid Nita didn’t mention anything about Carmela to me, but I’ll ask next time I hear from her and update you.  Look—what are we going to tell the authorities if they don’t come back by the end of the grace period?  We’re going to need to be on the same page.”

Marina clucks her tongue, an irritated sound.  “The kids are fighting Mr. _Diablo_ himself, and the parents get to fight off the district superintendent.”

“Yeah.  Think they’d be up for a trade?” Harry jokes.

“I would trade with them in a heartbeat, if I could,” says Marina, and she is not joking.  “I would take their place, no question.”

 

**Oak-leaf geranium—true friendship**

His sense of relief at Nita’s visit doesn’t last long.  He can sense things getting worse, his mind beginning to fray as the forces that once kept it in balance pull apart.

He can’t take it anymore.  He has to ask.  He’d promised himself that he wouldn’t be _that_ parent, but he can’t continue like this.

He walks over to Tom’s house and rings the doorbell.  The door opens, and Tom looks out at him.

“Harry!  How’s it going?”

Harry blurts it out before he can stop himself.  “Please.  I need to know where my daughters are.”

Tom steps forward, looking concerned.  “What, have they gone missing?”

_What?_   “No, they—this has to do with what you guys were doing…”

Tom frowns.  “ _What_ were we doing?”

None of this is making sense.  Harry is starting to get agitated.  “Tom, you’re the ones who should be telling _me_ -”

The look on Tom’s face shifts to one of mixed fear and disgust.  “What.  Are you.  Accusing us of.” he asks coldly.

Harry is practically shouting now.  “I’m not accusing you of anything, I-”

Carl appears in the doorway, staring at Harry with distrust in his eyes.  “What’s the matter?” he asks.  And then, to Tom, “Is he threatening you?”  Carl steps briskly outside and makes as if to push Tom behind him, back into the house.  “Go call the police.  I’ll handle this.”

Tom holds his ground, shakes his head.  “No,” he tells Carl, “it’s okay.  Let me talk to him.”  He looks steadily into Harry’s eyes.  “Go on inside; I’ll join you in a minute.”

Carl glances at Tom as if waiting for some kind of nonverbal affirmation.  Then he backs away, looking more confused and uncertain than ever.  He stalks into the house and closes the door.

Tom folds his arms and looks away, composing himself.  Then he says, “We know about the rumors.  We know that the neighbors think that Carl and I are a little… eccentric.  The animals, the role-playing games…” – _Role-playing games?_ thinks Harry— “What surprises me is that _you_ , of all people, would think that we could-”  Tom struggles, different emotions fighting for control of his face.  “Neither of us is a threat to your children.  I thought you would know that.”  And then, with quiet disappointment, “I thought we were friends.”

There is an uncomfortable silence.

Almost against his better judgement, Harry says, “But I was just talking about the magic.  About Nita and Dairine’s quest to save the universe…”

Tom sighs.  “I promise,” he says, “we haven’t been encouraging that.  I know that Nita’s been acting overly-imaginative lately… have you tried checking the neighborhood playground?  She and Dairine might be playing there, or in the woods nearby.”

_Overly-imaginative?  Playing?_   For a moment Harry is too stunned to speak.  Then he says, “Okay.  Thanks.  Sorry for… sorry for bothering you.”  Hesitantly, he turns around and leaves.

Harry walks home on a kind of auto-pilot.  He can’t stop thinking about how, only two weeks ago, Tom had cried in his arms on the sidewalk.  He still remembers Tom saying, a few days before that, “This is helping.  And I appreciate it.”  And a few days before that, “Any time you need a friendly ear, you know our number.”

_They’ve lost their magic,_ he thinks numbly, disbelieving.  _And me… I’ve lost a friend._  

He’s not sure which is worse.

 

**Verbena—pray for me**

Sunday morning.

He nods off in the middle of filling out delivery paperwork and dreams he is a shadow on a wall.  Betty floats down.  She takes his shadow by the hand and lifts him up, like something out of Peter Pan, and they fly away together.

He awakens to the sound of dogs howling outside.

_It’s over_ , he thinks.  _One way or another, it’s over._

He finds that, whatever that may mean, he’s ready for it.

**Author's Note:**

> It is difficult to find any kind of consensus on the Victorian "Language of Flowers", but [this guide](https://aboutflowers.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/11/languageofflowers-flowerdictionary.pdf) has to be my favorite of all the guides I've stumbled across. It was really, really hard not to be able to use Camellia ("my destiny is in your hands"), Striped Carnation ("I cannot be with you"), Dogwood ("love undiminished by adversity"), and about a dozen others. I enjoyed just perusing it--I have no idea if any of these meanings are based in historical fact, but whatever--they worked fabulously for this piece.


End file.
